Of Snowy Days
by TheBlindReader
Summary: It's the first anniversary of a certain someone's death. Katniss' POV. Post Mockingjay oneshot.


_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. If I did, all the "less important" characters would have last names like everyone else._

 _A/N: This is a birthday present for my sister. Happy 16th, Lizzy! I hope you enjoy this totally depressing, utterly un-requested work of amateur fiction for a book series you didn't entirely love._

* * *

I wake up to the smell of sausage and eggs wafting into my room. Peeta must have come over early to make breakfast. I almost smile, until I remember what day it is. Just like that, I lose my appetite.

I sit up slowly, contemplating how I want to spend today. I should go downstairs and thank Peeta. Enjoy the food I already know is delicious.

But I don't want to. I don't want to look at him, or any other person. Not today.

So I slide out of bed and dress. Lace up my boots, throw on a coat and some gloves, and quietly step out into the hall. I tiptoe down the stairs, slowly, careful to avoid any creaky spots on the wood. I can hear grease sizzling, metal scraping from the kitchen. Good. Maybe Peeta won't hear me leave.

I find my hunting gear where I left it, by the back door. I grab my bow, quiver, and satchel.

After managing to open the door and shut it soundlessly behind me, I pause to breathe in the cold winter air. Snow lies in patches here and there, left over from last week's storm. The rest of the ground is frozen solid. I don't have to worry about leaving tracks.

I feel the heat leaving my body, so I take off towards the woods in a jog, both to warm myself and to get far away from my house as speedily as possible.

I know Peeta will be confused when he finds me gone. Confused and hurt. But I can't face him today. I can't face the memories. That's why I'm going to the place that has the fewest reminders. The woods.

As I approach the treeline, it occurs to me that he might not actually know what today is. But the thought is preposterous, because this is Peeta I'm talking about. Peeta, the boy who remembers what I was wearing the first time he saw me 13 years ago. I dismiss the notion immediately, because if I don't, I'll become irrationally angry at him.

I slow my pace once the ground changes to hard snow that crunches under my feet. Even for someone as stealthy as I, it would be impossible to stalk an animal in these conditions. But I didn't come out here to hunt.

I trudge for a half an hour or so before reaching my destination- an overhang along one of the larger creek beds. There's enough room under there for me to sit or lie down. Plus, it'll keep me shielded from the frigid wind that has started to pick up.

Stowing my bow and quiver in the more narrow space between the rock above and the dirt below, I settle down, facing the frozen stream.

By now, my face is numb. I bury it in the crook of my arm and stare out at the trees. They're gray, empty, seemingly lifeless. Just like my eyes, or, at least, how I assume my eyes look to other people. I close them, listening to the near silence around me. It's so still out here, so muted. The perfect place to think. Which is ironic, because thoughts are the very things I was running from.

Unbidden, her face flashes across my closed lids. The last time I saw her. The last time she saw me. That was a year ago, today.

On cue, the all too familiar, all too true guilt seeps in. It soaks straight through whatever progress I've made in mending and reminds me: my sister is dead, because of me. Because I didn't play by the rules. Because I started a rebellion. Because I became the Mockingjay.

My eyes sting and my throat burns as I bite into my coat sleeve. I won't cry. I've cried for her so many times, and it never changed anything. Maybe I couldn't have changed anything, either. Peeta says the more I think about it, the fewer answers I'll have.

Speaking of which, I can hear him tromping through the woods after me. He's still a long way off, I can tell, but as his clamorous footfalls grow louder, I consider bolting. If I run along the ice, he won't be able to track my footprints like he's doing now.

But I don't. Running would surely hurt him, because he's just worried about me. He just wants to help.

I can see him approach out of the wet corner of my eye, but I keep my gaze glued to the trees, unable to look at him directly. He sits down beside me and nudges my arm with something. A thermos.

"Thought some tea might warm you up," he says softly.

I mutter a thanks and accept the hot bottle, wrapping my gloved hands tightly around it. We sit in silence for a bit, and I'm grateful, because I'm not sure what I can say to him that he isn't already aware of.

"I remember a day like this," he says, and I glance at him reflexively, unprepared for the sound of his voice. He's not looking at me, though. He's staring off at the snow, his expression distant. I drop my eyes to the thermos and wait for him to continue.

"I remember, it was snowing," he says after a few minutes. "I remember going to your house, but you weren't there. Your mother was worried about you, said you'd been gone a while. But your sister... she insisted you were fine. 'Hunting always takes a long time,' she told us. Then the Peacekeepers showed up, asking about you. We acted like you'd only just left on an errand. Then we spent the next couple hours trying to keep them entertained."

He chuckles a little and shakes his head, and all I can do is stare at him, because he hasn't talked about my family like this, not since the hijacking.

His brow furrow and he takes another long pause. Maybe he can feel my eyes on him. Or maybe the memory has begun to trouble him.

"You came back hurt," he says. "But with presents. Supplies for your mother and... candy. Peppermints, right?" When I don't answer, he turns to me. "Real or not real?"

I clear my throat. "Real," I say, even though this is the first time in two years I've thought about that day. I'm stunned and a little ashamed he remembers it so well. Are his memories of his own family this detailed?

"She knew you'd come back, Katniss," Peeta says suddenly, his blue eyes trained on my face, and I don't need to ask who he means. I don't want him to keep talking, but he does.

"She had complete faith in you, when the rest of us were panicking. And on days like this, when it's impossible not to think about her, I try to focus on the stuff that makes me smile. The stuff I don't ever want to forget. Like how much she loved peppermint candies. Or Buttercup. Or your mother. Or you."

My chests tightens and I have to look away, have to steady my breathing, have to swallow the sob that's trying to escape my lips. Only then do I realize how badly I'm shivering. I guess Peeta notices too, because he stands and places his coat over my shoulders.

"Don't stay gone too long, Katniss," I hear him mumble. Then I watch through blurry eyes as he starts back the way he came, head bowed, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched from the cold.

I'll follow him. But first, I close my eyes and let the tears fall.

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 _A/N: Thanks for reading!_


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